Lucia understood that given Sister Lansseax's unyielding thods, this retaliatory campaign was actually considered a asured response.
In stark contrast to their usual diplomatic restraint, the Ancient Dragon Temple had just concluded a tempestuous, crushing counteroffensive against the persistent provocations of the New Faction nobles. Under her direct mandate, hundreds of elite knights from the capital plaza had been deployed across the outer territories. Adopting a ruthless "eye for an eye" directive, they systematically demanded honorary duels from every local garrison that had harassed branch personnel.
The sellswords and veteran rcenaries retained by the minor provincial barons were formidable against isolated monks, but when pitted against a vengeful legion of the main temple's elite, they suffered a humiliating, total defeat.
Furthermore, the branch temples weaponized this military dominance to aggressively seize every parish marked as "disputed." In turn, they legally barred a significant number of Fundantalist congregations from preaching within those borders. They didn't target the entire Golden Order, of course—they specifically excommunicated the grassroots churches that "deviated from the true guidance of Queen Marika to collude with corrupt local lords."
Stripping away the propaganda of both factions, the month-long conflict was a lesson in deterrence. The New Faction had expected Farum Azula to endure their underhanded maneuvers due to being outnumbered. Instead, the dragons had struck back with a ferocity unseen in a decade, fracturing the nobles' grassroots influence before they could even organize a defense. It was a swift, heavy blow that knocked the teeth straight out of the conspiracy.
When the high court Dukes and Marquises tried to escalate the mobilization, Lansseax sent a personal, laconic letter to a dozen of the ringleaders. The ssage was devastatingly simple: Cessation, or total war.
Lucia had previously worried she was overextending her hand, but the resolution proved her calculation flawless. The morning after the letters arrived, Marika and Radagon summoned every noble of Marquis rank and above holding a seat in the capital to an ergency inner court council at the Eternal Palace. By royal decree, the standoff was instantly terminated.
Hostilities ceased, and the borders of the parishes were locked. The New Faction's Fundantalist churches accounted for less than forty percent of the realm's sacred infrastructure; pushing them out of the inner circles of the Altus Plateau didn't threaten the overall peace, but it firmly re-established the dragons' territory.
Only then did Lucia realize he had severely underestimated the geopolitical shield of his own existence. As an Empyrean consecrated by the Greater Will, the court nobles only dared to use low-level vassals for their dirty work. The mont the conflict threatened to spiral into an actual dynastic civil war, the supre rulers of the Golden Dynasty would inevitably step in to preserve the peace.
They walked along the stone arcade bordering the training grounds. Since the knights deployed to the outer reaches had not yet returned, the corridors were echoing and quiet. The few guards they encountered failed to recognize Lucia behind his mundane chainmail, simply saluting the High Priestess before returning to their vigils.
As they turned a final corner, a monolithic granite structure billing thick, white plus of smoke rose dozens of paces ahead. Even at this distance, a wall of dry, sweltering heat washed over Lucia's face.
"Is that the temple's slting house?" he asked, squinting against the glare.
"It is our exclusive weapon forge," Lansseax nodded, her pace steady. "Because our knights routinely channel elental arts, standard Leyndell steel is completely useless. A regular blade will structurally fail and snap after conducting Dragon Lightning or primal frost a few tis. We had to construct a dedicated foundry utilizing the specialized smithing grids and materials of Farum Azula."
They entered the threshold, the roaring din of the furnaces instantly enveloping them.
The interior layout was a marvel of industrialized logistics. Colossal slting furnaces and heavy iron ductwork were integrated into a systematic assembly line. chanically driven conveyor tracks transported raw yields of Adamantite, Cold Iron, and shed Dragon Scales directly into the automated refinent sequences. Heavy-set craftsn swung massive iron sledges and held glowing tongs, hamring weapons and heavy plate in an orderly sequence before sending the finished goods down a secondary track toward the deep armories.
What struck Lucia most was the workforce: more than half of the busy smiths were not human. Over twenty towering, muscular Misbegottens manned the high-exertion anvils, their bestial strength effortlessly shaping the white-hot tal. The logistical task of hauling raw materials and cooling crates was handled by a small army of Demi-humans and lesser Misbegottens. The human smiths present were not taskmasters or guards; they worked fervently alongside them as equal colleagues.
"Lord Priestess!" the craftsn greeted warmly, nodding to the disguised Lucia without breaking their rhythm. Within the Dragon Temple, formalities that interrupted labor were strictly forbidden. Neither the two High Priests nor the veteran knights demanded groveling compliance from their artisans.
Lansseax waved back with a bright smile, stopping beside a massive Misbegotten blacksmith who was resting against a stone pillar. "Master Shugo, please pull a newly quenched knight's broadsword from the line, and find a standard Leyndell steel blade for comparison."
Shugo was a weathered, middle-aged Misbegotten whose features bore the scars of a brutal past. The majestic horns that should have covered his skull and spine had been crudely lopped off during his youth, leaving his mottled skin thick with old scar tissue. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, and his unkempt beard had gone entirely gray.
Despite his battered fra, his eyes were sharp and alert. He nodded respectfully, gulped down several heavy swallows from a massive, seven-liter wooden gourd hooked to his belt, and nimbly stepped toward the chanical conveyor track.
He pulled a fresh, heavy broadsword from the cooling racks, then rummaged through a bin of scrap parts to retrieve a standard human knight's sword. Holding both weapons firmly in a single, three-fingered grip, he strode back to them.
As he approached, a pungent, overpowering wave of alcohol hit Lucia's nose. The giant gourd didn't contain water at all—it was filled to the brim with raw, high-proof spirits.
"Lord Priestess, the blades... hic... the blades are ready," Shugo muttered, offering a lazy, drunken grin as he extended the hilts.
"Master Shugo, I have warned you a thousand tis that excessive drinking will ruin your health," Lansseax scolded gently as she took the iron. "If I catch you sneaking that moonshine into the forge again, I am confiscating that gourd permanently."
"Hehehe... don't you worry, my lady. Next ti, it'll be pure well-water, I swear it!" Shugo promised, slapping his leather apron.
But as his arm ca down, his peripheral vision locked onto the slender youth standing quietly in Lansseax's shadow. The blacksmith went completely rigid.
The shock was gone in a heartbeat. Shugo masterfully averted his gaze, lowering his head a fraction of an inch further into a subtle, respectful bow. "If there is nothing else, my lady, I must return to my forge. These old bones have hamred twenty blades since dawn, and the fire calls."
Receiving her nod, the ancient artisan delivered a deep, solemn salute and turned away without a backward glance, his towering silhouette dissolving back into the shifting sparks and white steam of the workshop's depths.
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